


the trouble with electronic mail

by doctormissy



Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Aziraphale and Crowley Live Together (Good Omens), Cats, Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Domestic, E-mail, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Summer, and they're reconnecting with warlock, it's a year after armageddon't, one small step for aziraphale; one giant leap towards the 21st century, warlock lives in america now, yes via e-mail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: ‘There’s mail!’Crowley willed his other eye to open as well and stared at the canopy of leaves and red fruits above him for a second. ‘Yeah, so?’‘Electronicmail,’ Aziraphale corrected himself. Crowley still didn’t understand what was so important about it to justify waking him up. He inwardly cringed at the choice of words, too. He bloody wellknewit was called ane-mail—‘From Warlock!’ Aziraphale added, exhilarated.Oh.Or, in other words, Warlock lives in America, Aziraphale and Crowley live in the South Downs, and the only way to go about informing the former about what exactly had gone down a year ago is e-mailing,obviously.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: all aboard the ineffable plan [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1492577
Comments: 12
Kudos: 141
Collections: Recommandation (fics) list





	the trouble with electronic mail

**Author's Note:**

> *️⃣ set after "all aboard the ineffable plan"
> 
> ✅ can be read as stand-alone (I added a bit of a fic this references here at the beginning!) ♡

_‘Oh_ _, it’s been a while since we were [at this bistro], hasn’t it?’ Aziraphale says, scrunching his nose in delight. He folds his elbows on the table and looks around. The white walls and pictures and wooden furniture are exactly the same as the last time. But then his face switches to neutral to concerned in a matter of seconds. And—Crowley remembers too._

_‘We were on a leave from taking care of Warlock then. I do wonder how he’s doing. We—’ Aziraphale chuckles darkly, not something he’s in the habit of doing. ‘Well, we didn’t do right by him in the end, did we? We… left.’_

_‘We thought he was the Antichrist. He wasn’t,’ Crowley says. His face is resolutely blank._

_‘You cared for him, Crowley, I know you did. You spent more time with him than I ever did.’_

_‘Don’t be ridiculous.’_

_Aziraphale gives him a deeply unimpressed look. But it’s like—he’s sad about things. Crowley’s heartbeat makes itself known in his chest without consulting him first. Deep down, in the centre of that treacherous heart, he knows there’s something to what he says._

_Take the Ark, the children who almost drowned by Her holy hand. Take Florence, 1348 AD, the Black Death. Take the brilliant idea that they should_ _raise_ _the Antichrist_ themselves. 

_‘We could, I don’t know. Send him a letter,’ Aziraphale muses._

_Crowley lifts an eyebrow. ‘A letter? About_ what, _precisely? How his nanny and gardener suddenly left the household without so much as a wave because they intended to_ murder him _and then eloped together and didn’t even remember him until almost a year later?’ Aziraphale blinks and averts his eyes and fidgets on his chair. ‘Didn’t think so. Wouldn’t reach him anyway. They moved back to America.’_

_His gaze snaps back to him, inquiring, wide. ‘How do you know?’_

_‘I read the news. Anyway.’ He sniffles; looks up at the girl carrying their drinks and food carefully balanced on her arms. ‘Lunch is here.’_

_([ends of being and ideal grace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737848))_

* * *

It came apropos of nothing, really.

Aziraphale was helping himself to a bunch of home-baked raspberry scones with raspberry jam and a bit of cream and a nice cup of tea, and Crowley was lounging at the table with a mugful of espresso and a sour look that was there simply because it happened to be 9:02 a.m. He wasn’t a morning demon. The morning in question wasn’t particularly special, either. It was nice outside. Too nice for his liking. There would probably be people on the beach later.

Well, at least he’d have some fun making sure their inflatable balls hit a rock and lost their ability to stay inflated, and that sand found its way into everyone’s bags and shoes and _clung_. But he still didn’t like it when there were people on the beach.

For reasons[1].

Anyway. Aziraphale turned over a page in the latest issue of _Celestial Observer_ , and then, still hidden behind the pages, said, ‘You know, it’s not just Adam Young’s birthday next week.’

Crowley didn’t know where he was going with this. Of course it wasn’t. There must have been a whole lot of humans who were born that week. So to speak. He sipped at his hellishly black coffee. ‘Yeah. Your point?’

Aziraphale lowered the newspaper and gave him a Look. ‘It’s Warlock’s, as well.’

Ah.

Crowley set the mug down. He’s been wondering when he’d bring it up again, when exactly was _later_ , somewhere at the back of his celestially vast and very much tangled-beyond-repair mind.

Because, you see, a week afore the First Apocaversary[2] wasn’t the first time the topic of the boy formerly thought to be the Antichrist came up. No, that would be in May, inside a cosy little Parisian bistro, above a portion of crêpes.

Aziraphale had wanted to send him a _letter_ , as if that would make up for fucking off to Tadfield and remembering him exactly one (1) time. They’d disagreed on the logistics of the whole deal, and it hadn’t been mentioned since.

Yes, it wasn’t getting any less unfair towards Warlock. They were aware.

Crowley—well, he missed the boy if he were being entirely honest, which wasn’t very often, being a demon an all. Retired or not. So if someone from Downstairs came and asked whether he’s been up to some Nasty[3] Behaviour, tell them no, absolutely not, he was as evil as ever, yeah?

Moving on.

Crowley had Not Entirely Detached feelings about the boy. But Warlock’s mum has dragged him off to America following her divorcing Thaddeus, so you see how there might be a slight problem here, and anyway, to bring back the arguments of May, _what_ were they supposed to _tell him_?

They’ve already messed up enough.

‘Mmh-hm. And what’s that mean for us, according to you?’ he asked. One of his eyebrows went up, as it was wont to when Aziraphale didn’t get straight to the point. Which was often. Straightness wasn’t exactly one of his defining qualities, in whichever sense you take to understand it.

Aziraphale’s Look morphed into an exasperated one. ‘You _know_ what I’m talking about.’

‘Still on about sending him a letter? For his birthday? He’ll likely just throw it away, if it doesn’t get lost in the post[4].’ Crowley gave a half-shrug and drank the rest of his coffee in one big gulp. He got up with a loud, wood-on-tiles screech and carried the mug to the sink. He left it there.

There was a window in front of the sink. He gave the seaside and all that sunny attitude a narrow glance. Then his eyes travelled to the black furball dozing on the outer windowsill. ‘Bet _you’re_ happy about this weather,’ he muttered.

The cat, known as Delilah, ignored him.

At the table, Aziraphale finished off a scone and said, ‘That’s why I’m going to send him an e-mail.’

Crowley whipped around. His legs decided to take him back to that table entirely by reflex. He smiled somewhat smugly. ‘Oh, feeling very modern all of a sudden, are we?’

‘I’ll have you know that I’ve been searching for recipes on that Pinterest site,’ Aziraphale said, both proud and mildly done with Crowley’s remarks all at once. It was impressive.

‘I know, angel,’ Crowley said. He sat down again and propped his chin on both his hands. ‘You mentioned it a time or twenty. But the issue remains, letter, e-mail, ‘s all the same.’

‘Why are you being so uncooperative, Crowley? Don’t you want to hear how he’s _doing_?’

Crowley exhaled through the nose. He wasn’t being _uncooperative_ —he was just being pragmatic.

(He didn’t want him to get hurt any further, opening old wounds. Twelve was a fragile age for a human.)

His bare foot kicked Aziraphale’s slippered one under the table, but the crease on Aziraphale’s brow didn’t relent.

‘Do you even know his e-mail address?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Or if he has one at all? What if he doesn’t reply? And then there’s still the matter of the _content_ —’

‘ _Crowley_.’ The look Aziraphale gave him couldn’t really be accurately described by an expression other than _puppy eyes_ , right know. Exasperated bloody puppy eyes.

Crowley licked his bottom lip. ‘Fine. Okay. I’ll give you his address, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

The angel lit up like anything. Crowley’s forehead creased a bit, to balance out the celestial lightbulb, but the corner of his mouth went surreptitiously upwards. Aziraphale said, ‘Oh, I rather thought you might help me. Weigh in a bit, since you were, well, since _you_ were primarily his parent.’

Crowley considered this. He stroked his chin in a thoughtful manner, even. ‘Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve got much to lose here…’

Thus, he found himself sitting on top of Aziraphale’s antique desk, getting slowly but consistently tortured by the angel’s style of typing—that is, one key per three seconds—and thinking a hole into the carpet as a way of releasing the frustration. It was almost half a foot wide already.

The wood beneath the carpet was starting to smoulder. That woke Crowley up from his blank-stare trance, and he snapped his fingers to undo any and all lasting damage to the old carpet[5].

‘… _came to your household in disguise to raise you to be_ —no, that doesn’t sound right. What do you think, my dear?’

Crowley whipped his head around and saw the angel looking up at him expectantly. He’s been talking, and Crowley hasn’t been listening. ‘What?’ he asked.

Aziraphale, strictly afterwards, answered his own question and went back to typing very slowly with his right index finger. ‘ _To **influence** you to be neither evil nor the paragon of good_.’

Crowley perused what he’s written so far. He said, ‘Bit harsh, innit? Dropping the Apocalypse bombshell right at the beginning?’

‘Well, how else is he supposed to understand the events of the past six years, and who we are?’ Aziraphale said. ‘And, oh, I forgot a comma, I have to go back now.’

He knew what the little arrows did and didn’t delete the whole thing, fortunately for him and all the cats and birds in the area. But Crowley still couldn’t find it in himself not to groan and slide off the desk. ‘Move over,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Move over, angel, I’ll write it. ‘S my laptop anyway, and you’re driving me crazy. Just—dictate it to me and I’ll edit as I see fit.’ He wiggled his fingers in front of Aziraphale’s face. ‘Quick fingers.’

There was a lot to say about those fingers in utterly different situations, and all that came rushing to Crowley’s mind, but he smirked for himself and decided not to go there, for everyone and their mother’s benefit.

Aziraphale took one of those hands and pressed a light kiss against it. ‘Oh, thank you, darling. I knew you’d come around eventually.’

_Bastard_. Always knew how to make Crowley do his bidding. And Crowley’s demon heart couldn’t help but flutter at that, and be told off thereupon, but with no real feeling to it. Love was a strange business.

Aziraphale got up, and with a slight roll of his eyes, Crowley slid into the chair.

* * *

From: ajcrowley@gmail.com

To: warlockdowling07@gmail.com

Subject: Happy birthday!

Dear Warlock,

We are writing to wish you a very happy twelfth birthday! May it be most joyful and bring you many kind gifts and all the love you deserve. We do hope that wherever you are, you are doing well, and that whoever is performing at your birthday party is at least half as good as the magician who’d entertained at the last one (he was bloody terrible, so that’s not exactly hard).

Now, you’re probably wondering who “we” are. Well, there is no easy way to explain that, but we shall start at the beginning, shan’t we? Or, what may be the beginning for you.

You may know us as Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, the gardener (obviously) (who would he be, the cook?). But our real(ish) names are Anthony (or Antonia, depends on the circumstances) J. Crowley and Aziraphale, also known as A. Z. Fell, bookseller (who doesn’t actually sell any books). Together, we came to your household in disguise to influence you to be neither evil nor a paragon of good and, ultimately, to decide not to destroy the world.

Crowley (who feels weird writing about himself in the 3rd person) argued not to go into all the details, but in the end, we decided it wouldn’t do any good to lie to you. You must already think you had one strange upbringing… So, here goes. We are an angel and a demon (and yes, we did end up together, imagine that). We thought you were the Antichrist, the son of Lucifer himself, because that was how Heaven and Hell have planned it. But due to an unfortunate—or perhaps fortunate—mishap at birth, the real Antichrist went to a different family.

We found out at the birthday party, when no Hellhound showed up (that’s why Hastur—weird pale bloke, smells like poo—asked about a dog when you were in Megiddo) and promptly abandoned you to find the real Antichrist. We are so very sorry for leaving you like that and not saying a word until now, a whole year later.

We _have_ found the real Antichrist. His name is Adam Young, he lives in Tadfield, Oxfordshire, and his birthday is on the same day as yours. He turned out exactly as we wanted you to turn out, human incarnate. He did not end the world (duh. or else we wouldn’t be emailing you). We kept in touch with him, but not you.

Once again, we are very sorry. We wish we could have done things differently, remembered before you moved to America, but alas, the events of the past cannot be rewritten (unless you _are_ the Antichrist, which is the whole point here), so we can only ask for forgiveness. We are sorry to hear about your parents, too (well, Aziraphale is, I say well done Harriet, was about time).

Whatever you find yourself believing or disbelieving is up to you (but c’mon, you’re still nanny’s little hellspawn, is it really that hard to believe angels and demons are real?), but that is the truth. You can ask us whatever you need; we will try to answer your questions.

But enough about us—how _are_ you doing? How do you like the States? What about school? Your friends? Oh, it’s been so long. You must have grown so much since we last saw you in summer. You’re nearly a teenager now! Just beginning to discover the beauties (and uglies) of the world.

We hope we will be hearing from you. If not, well, know that we did love you and tried our best, and that whatever reason you have for not replying, we won’t be mad (Aziraphale will be disappointed and make sad faces all week though, so think carefully). We understand that you may be cross with us (or not even read this, like, what kid reads emails these days, let alone write them) (if you _are_ reading this, well done! kudos! have a blackcurrant lolly on me, it should be in the top drawer of whatever has drawers that you have in your room, dark like my outfits 😉), or just… confused.

Whatever may happen next,

With love,

Aziraphale (Francis) (also the bloke who composed this) & Crowley (Nanny) (also the bloke who had to type this thing and added all the parentheses) (and misspelt that word twice) (and misspelt the word “misspelt”) (that’s “misspelled” for you I guess) (I’m done now)

* * *

If you asked Crowley why he was so nervous and fidgety, was it the lack of reply from Warlock in the past five days? he’d deny everything in a beat and tell you, no, why would that bother him, he wasn’t expecting a reply anyway.

Also, he wasn’t nervous and fidgety, that was Aziraphale’s thing. He was merely playing Angry Birds on his mobile and tapping his foot against the floor rather fast because he was unsuccessful in shooting the blessed pigs.

It was a completely normal pastime to engage in on a Sunday morning when Aziraphale was _still_ in the shower[6] and the outside was bloody unbearable, thank you very much. _Temperature records_. Someone Up There in the Weather Department was making it their mission to make their lives—and the English—miserable, he was sure of it.

But… alright, he might, perhaps, be a _tad_ concerned. For Aziraphale. He wasn’t lying about the Sad Faces in the e-mail. The angel was considerably less excited about the new series of the Bake-Off coming in a few days, even, and he _loved_ the Bake-Off[7].

Quite unaware of what was going on on his face, Crowley pursed his lips and gave the humid air inside a sorely disappointed look. The iced coffee on the coffee table cooled itself. The dracaena in the corner straightened itself.

No e-mail showed up in his inbox.

The creases on his brow deepened, somehow, and he frowned at the not-so-angry Angry Birds. They thought they had any right to be called that? They haven’t seen anything yet.

‘What’s on your mind, dear? You look troubled,’ said a smooth, concerned voice somewhere to his left. Crowley realised he couldn’t hear running water anymore, and looked up, blinking.

Aziraphale finally emerged from the bathroom, wearing a towel around his hips and nothing more. Crowley eyed him appreciatively and smacked his lips. Aziraphale’s fleeting glance landed on Crowley’s frappe. Resolute in his efforts not to blush, he took a sip. The lack of sugar in it made him grimace.

Crowley lifted the mobile and showed him the colourful screen. ‘Can’t beat this level,’ he said evasively. ‘To Hell with it all. Shall we go to the beach?’

‘I’ve _just_ showered, Crowley,’ he told him, as if Crowley didn’t already know that. ‘Perhaps in the evening. I rather thought we might play a game of chess. Or cards? Your pick.’

Crowley picked Go Fish. Not because the back of his mind supplied that they played that with Warlock when he was eight. Because it would aggravate Aziraphale and his sophisticated chess-playing ancient self.

Absolutely.

He wasn’t lying, you were lying.

* * *

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale called from somewhere inside the cottage. His study, probably, where he’s been reading a book the last time Crowley saw him. ‘Where are you, dear?’

Crowley opened one eye. Until now, he’s been enjoying a nap in the hammock stretched between the two apple trees in their[8] garden, with a cat doing the same by his feet and the remains of yesterday’s lunch and birthday cake still heavy in his stomach.

Yesterday, you see, was Adam’s—and Warlock’s—birthday[9], and as birthdays tended to, it involved lots of food. Aziraphale kept making all these faces and slightly indignant moans and _you must simply try this, my dear, so wonderful_ , so he tried it, because bless him if he ever resisted that face.

Food made him drowsy. Natural snake instinct.

So you must understand his groan and disgruntled exhale as Aziraphale called for him again.

‘Garden,’ he called back. ‘Why?’

‘There’s mail!’

He willed his other eye to open as well and stared at the canopy of leaves and red fruits above him for a second. ‘Yeah, so?’

‘ _Electronic_ mail,’ Aziraphale corrected himself. Crowley still didn’t understand what was so important about it to justify waking him up. He inwardly cringed at the choice of words, too. He bloody well _knew_ it was called an _e-mail_ —

‘From Warlock!’ Aziraphale added, exhilarated.

Oh.

_Oh_. The cogs clicked, and Crowley sat up.

The hammock was so shocked by this unexpected action that it couldn’t do anything other than turn over in panic, however, and so both he and Delilah quickly found themselves on the ground, making undignified noises and trying to recover their scattered pride before Aziraphale saw. Or maybe that was just Crowley. The cat was already running inside.

He gathered himself up, frowning the onlooking dahlias into minding their own business, and asked, casually, ‘What’s he say then?’

The truth was that he was anything but casual.

He hasn’t been expecting the kid to reply, but then again, he also _has_ been expecting him to reply and dreading what he might say. You might have heard. He, of course, would _still_ not admit this out loud because demons weren’t nervous about children’s opinions on them, but. Even the cat knew it, blast it.

He made his way upstairs and leant against the doorjamb coolly, like a cool person, waiting for Aziraphale to turn over and notice him. But Aziraphale’s eyes remained plastered to the screen[10] as he said, somewhat distractedly, ‘Come and—see for yourself.’

Crowley let out a resigned noise and swaggered to the desk. He pushed his sunglasses into his hair, tucking a few unruly strands behind his ears in the process, and put an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. Clad in a short-sleeved shirt[11]. Miracles never ceased.

Especially where his laptop was concerned. Aziraphale was able to use it solely on the base of miracles and conviction that it would simply do whatever he needed it to do without all fuss. Crowley has caught him talking to it like it was Alexa once—and it _listened_.

Anyway. He squinted at the bright screen and begin to read.

* * *

From: warlockdowling07@gmail.com

To: ajcrowley@gmail.com

Subject: RE: Happy birthday!

Hi, Nanny and Francis (?)

what you said still makes me want to climb on the roof and scream WHAT THE HECK real loud for a really long time. But it also sort of makes sense I guess? I mean, I always thought you were a goth or something, with the way you dressed and talked. And that Francis was just weird. But ok, if I accept the whole religion business is real, angel and demon sounds about right.

IS the whole religion business real? What about like Jews and Muslims? And Buddhists? And atheists? Cause my mom says it’s all bullshit.

Also, Mom was gonna sack you anyway cause I was old enough not to need a nanny and she also thought Francis was weird. But thanks for remembering. And the lolly. And the birthday wish. TBH I wasn’t gonna reply, but then I remembered your face when I did something rude-rude not good-rude, or disappointing, and felt all guilty about it. So.

Mom sent me to a private boys’ school here. It sucks. But we’re better off without Dad. She can pay more attention to me (and herself, I guess). She threw me an awesome birthday party, we FINALLY went to that escape room. And to a virtual reality. And then we had a paintball match cause it’s like a cake battle but with paint. And guns. It’s fun!

Also, even if was the antichrist I wouldn’t have ended the world, that’s stupid, no matter what Nanny said. I’m glad that other boy didn’t. Is he really the son of Satan? Can he do real magic? Can you do real magic? I saw Nanny fix a mug I broke just like that with her hand once. It was cool. Mom didn’t believe me.

And if it’s not insensitive or something, how could Nanny be a woman and Crowley a man? How does that work? Is that a demon thing?

Yeah. So that’s all I guess. But can you add me on FB or something? No one writes emails anymore, just people in suits who work with Dad. And teachers. Whatever. I’m just Warlock Dowling on there.

Thanks.

Warlock

* * *

Crowley couldn’t help the soft snort that came out of his mouth, there at the end. He really couldn’t. He was _right_. About the obsolescence of Informal E-Mail Communication, as taught to English-learners everywhere to this day, about the guilt, about understanding, in the end.

His Hellspawn, alright.

He didn’t wait for Aziraphale to say anything and grabbed the laptop. He logged into Facebook, which he frankly only had to spread comment discord and watch heated discussions, and found the profile of one Warlock Dowling, who, of course, lied about being thirteen just like every twelve-year-old out there and contributed just slightly to Hell’s business schemes by doing so.

He grinned and sent him a friend request.

‘But I don’t have that _face book_ , Crowley, that’s not fair,’ Aziraphale pouted.

‘Didn’t you say _I_ was primarily his parent?’ Crowley wiggled his eyebrow and bit his lip. Aziraphale did the puppy eyes thing again. ‘Just create an account, for Lucifer’s sake, we’re already _nineteen_ years into the 21st century. Gotta start somewhere[12], angel.’

‘But—’

‘You could join bookworm groups and talk to Facebook Mums about baking. ‘S just your thing, eh?’

Here, he would tell you that he absolutely, never ever used his Temptation Charms on Aziraphale, ever. Only now he might have. Just a little bit.

‘Well, if you put it like that…’ He nodded in thought. ‘And I suppose, for Warlock’s sake, I must do, don’t I?’ Crowley let out a noncommittal sound. The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitched. ‘What do the humans say? There’s no time like the present?’

Crowley, ever so committed to being dramatic, put a hand to his chest and gasped. The way he expressed total—and totally pretend, except when it wasn’t—shock could put mimes all over the world to shame, honestly.

He logged out of his account and passed the laptop back to Aziraphale. He kissed the top of his head. Today was already making the Top Fifty Days in History List[13].

‘Gah, I’m proud of you.’

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, albeit with a smile on his face, and asked, ‘What do I put in as my name then?’

* * *

1 He felt very entitled and declared that it was near _their_ cottage and therefore belonged to _them_ , and that humans should stay well away. But not even his pointed glares could deter saltwater-thirsty swimmers and suntan-hungry housewives. Summer was uncharacteristically hot in England this year.[✿]

2 Crowley would be lying if he said he hadn’t come up with this.[✿]

3 i.e. Virtuous[✿]

4 He had fingers all over the postal service. He’d know. Oh, international shipping was a work of demonic _art_.[✿]

5 Said carpet, being of 18th-century Persian origin and very proud of its status and state, was incredibly offended that someone would _dare_ perform such a _horrible_ act of dismemberment upon its finely preserved threads, and did the carpet equivalent of ruffling its feathers when fixed. Also, Crowley would soon find himself losing his balance for no apparent reason.[✿]

6 Crowley got out of there twenty minutes ago, properly shagged, washed, and smelling of sandalwood, hair loose and waiting to drip all over the old, wooden floors. He got dressed, made himself an iced coffee, and fruitlessly scrolled down his e-mails for any traces of Warlock-related news. And Aziraphale was still there, going through a complicated moisturising process or something. Unbelievable.[✿]

7 Aziraphale loved watching it. Aziraphale loved baking. Aziraphale was excellent at baking. Can you see the connection we are trying to make here?

Well, Crowley and all the neighbours certainly did.[✿]

8 Read: Crowley’s[✿]

9 They were surprised by the invitation too.[✿]

10 If you’re wondering how exactly he knew there was an e-mail when the original one had been sent from Crowley’s account, it was because Crowley expected the laptop to give him notifications even when it was turned off, and Aziraphale didn’t know anything about passwords, so when he opened it and clicked on the notification, it took him straight to inbox.[✿]

11 Crowley was wearing booty shorts and a grey vest top, should anyone wonder. Yes, it was the same time of year as the Apocalypse, but it was about 120% hotter this year if you asked him. And no, there were no vest-shaped tan lines on his skin, because he said so. Those happened to other people.[✿]

12 He’s been using _Crowley’s_ Pinterest account.[✿]

13 Also featuring the day he met Aziraphale, the day he had oysters in Rome with Aziraphale, the day Aziraphale called him his friend for the first time, the day he moved in with Aziraphale, the day he kissed Aziraphale for the first time, the day he and Aziraphale made love for the first time… well, you can imagine.[✿]

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos sustain me ♡


End file.
